All I want for Christmas...

..is a maid and a massage therapist, so the therapist can whisper, "Lulu is cleaning the house," as he rubs the tension out of my shoulders.

We had Christmas and it was super. We are now home again. Jake is happy; Niles is pouting. Would write more but A is apparently hungry.

Leaving on a jet plane

Or so we freaking hope.

We had a lovely dinner with J & T and J's 'rents last night, an indulgence since we're going to be in CO when T makes pierogies for Christmas. They were delicious (and so was the ham). We got home around 10PM.

A slept (mostly) while C and I packed. It took us until 2AM to pack every thing. A woke up at 5:25 on the nose to eat, so I fed him and gather the last essentials we'd forgotten in our midnight stupor (infant Tylenol, wipes) that still need to go in the suitcase. This is all the crap we'll be lugging along:

• One huge-ass suitcase big enough for the entire damn family to climb in. Checked.
• One Pack-N-Play, with sheets. Checked.
• One matching bag with books, food (cookies!), second-string back-ups for A and my other nursing bra, since you just can't go buy a huge-ass nursing bra at the 7-11. Carry-on.
• One duffle containing winter gear: boots, hats, scarves, etc. Carry-on due to essential nature of winter gear coupled with lack of desire to wear Bean boots in SD airport.
• One diaper bag, filled to the freaking brim with diapers and A's first-string back-up outfits. Carry-on.
• One purse, filled with all the liquids that I can't replace easily in case I am separated from my checked luggage. Carry-on.
• One freaking huge car seat, with base, to be lugged on the plane. Carry-on.
• Coats for all. Not taking the full-length wool. Carry-on.
• Baby Bjorn and Peanut Shell baby carriers for baby portability. Carry-on.

We're sleep-deprived, but we're traveling. I MUST shower. Have a merry Christmas if I don't catch you until after the merriment.

Sleep deprivation and snowstorms

I'm really so tired that I'm having problems completing coherent sentences.

C, A and I took our alphabet soup selves to Julie and Terry's last night to help in the pierogie-making process since we're going to have ourselves some merry little pierogies before we leave town. We were there late, then we had to get up early today for trash and the mechanic's. So we're tired here (everyone but A, it seems).

I get clumsier when I get tired. I was doing a Christmas-surprise-related chore that required being on hands and knees on the floor, and in my tiredness stood up under the dining room table. I might be short, but I'm not that short. So now I've got a nasty mark on the small of my back.

I had grand plans for today that involved packing, laundry, and Christmas-surprise-related chores, but I think the next grand plan is going to be take A to bed and try to nap. Ugh. Don't even get me started on trying to call the airline or DIA.

Anarchy in the diaper nation

I have become one of those mothers. You know, the mom who changes her baby on the bench at the zoo.

But I was driven to it by Staples. And A was on a changing pad the entire time and nothing gross touched the bench. The diaper came home with us to be discarded, like the zoo doesn't have waste products but we are of a "pack it out" mentality here.

A and I got the task of shipping off the holiday gifts, so we found ourselves at Staples yesterday. This required putting A in the sling, getting a cart, unloading the boxes from the car, and waiting in line. A made it all through the addressing of four boxes before he started to have a fit. Then he started wailing.

He needed a new diaper, so the nice lady at Staples reassured me that I could go change him while she printed up my bill. There was no changing table in the bathroom, so I ended up on the floor, trying to spread a ghastly amount of paper towels under me, my baby, and the diaper bag. Bathroom floors are gross.

How does this relate to the zoo? Well, once I felt like society really didn't care about my diaper-changing needs as a mom, I decided society had left me at large to determine my own problem-solving mission for meeting those needs. Hence, anarchy in the diaper nation.

But it's truly a cop-out, since I know the zoo has diaper changing tables in the bathrooms. But the nearest bathroom was far away and I swear he didn't touch the bench. Plus there wasn't anyone around (I wouldn't change him without asking nearby people if it was okay) and we were on a less-traveled stroller/wheelchair access route through the zoo.

Anyway, I will ask before I change my baby next to you. I won't change the baby on the table at a restaurant. I will use the diaper changing stations when available and prudent. But I understand where that mom in Wendy's was coming from now.

Dental December

Niles got his teeth cleaned last week and did well. Jake got his teeth cleaned Monday and had to have a couple teeth out, which makes us officially horrible kitty parents. Our bad cat dental care karma bit me in the ass when I broke a tooth while Jake was under the knife. It also just could be the generations of toothless and snaggle-toothed in my ancestry catching up with me--I'm doing great to still have my teeth. So now I've got a temporary crown (my first one) and our dental bills for December have climbed into the four-digit numbers.

Mistah A is ferociously biting his hands and our knuckles, but no teeth yet. I'm hoping we'll still get time for a family portrait before he cuts his first tooth but that may not happen. We're on a growth spurt officially again, eating every two to three hours or more often, which is cutting into our sleep and our holiday preparations like you wouldn't believe.

Woo hoo, nine hours of sleep!

That's right, A-fans; the boy slept from 7PM until 4AM last night. Now his stupid parents didn't go to bed until 10PM, but wow, last night was a nice night.

Competition and babies...

...go together like cops and robbers. I was going to say maple syrup and ham, but the baby competition is nowhere near that delicious.

I have a sibling with developmental disabilities, which I realize now was a really good lesson in enjoying babies for who they are and where they are. I had no idea how terribly competitive mothers are. Example: at the vet, picking up Niles, a woman asks me how old A is. I tell her and she says, "He's a big boy."

I say, "Yes, he was almost sixteen pounds at his four month checkup." I wasn't bragging. I was being quantitative and I haven't gotten him weighed lately.

She says, "I have a five-month-old daughter. She was sixteen and a half pounds at her four month checkup. 97th percentile! I told the doctor, 'I swear I'm not feeding her every time she cries.'" I felt the compulsion to simultaneously explain that it was actually 3 and a half months when A had his checkup and that we're breastfeeding and not formula feeding so we're still feeding on cue. There was probably a small lecture about breastfeeding in there too. I squashed it all.

The baby competition is something fierce. How big is just the start. There's the wildly popular "Is he sleeping through the night?" because hours of sleep is absolutely correlated to superior parenting. There's also the always nebulous, "Is he a good baby?" No, he's a bad baby; he's been hanging out with the Baby Mafia and they have some shady money-laundering activities going on. He's not colicky, but he's also not willing to wallow in his own crapulance.

I can't imagine the competitiveness that's going to happen once he can crawl, walk, and talk. I'm not having any of it. I'm pretty sure I have the cutest, sweetest baby in the universe and I'm pretty sure every other parent feels the same way.

Flu shot

I got a flu shot Tuesday. I got it at the local supermarket because my GP was all out of his first batch of vaccine and didn't know when the next one was coming. As the "primary caretaker of an infant," I get to be in the category of high-risk people who should get one.

I head to the local supermarket at the appointed time. The guy giving the shots takes my money to pay for the shot (in his latex gloves), then gives a shot to the guy ahead of me (without changing the gloves). I've got Mistah A in the sling and so I watch the guy give shots to the next two people (and touch the cash register) without changing gloves. I just read Dr. Oz's patient book (which is excellent, btw) but it will give you the heebie jeebies if you see someone trying to give you a shot with non-sterile gloves.

So I lie. I say, "Say, do you have to change gloves after you touch the cash register? I used to work in a deli and we always had to change gloves after we touched the cash register." I feel okay about saying this because it's not, "You disgusting man, what are you doing?" and I used to do mystery shopping for a grocery chain and this is one of the things I was told to watch for.

"You know, they didn't cover that in training." He changes gloves and is very nice about it. We make small talk about how wonderful babies are; he has a ten-month-old son. He gives me the shot.

Tuesday night (late), I wake up and realize I have a raised puffy red patch about two inches in diameter around the injection site. I call my doctor's office and they say, "Hmm, bigger than a quarter? Big as a half dollar? Come on in." I said it was the size of a silver dollar but apparently the new dollar coins have messed up that reference.

Anyway, long story short too late, the guy injected the vaccine too low and I'm having a mild reaction to it. But that was Tuesday and I've still got it today, although it's less pink and puffy. Grumble grumble.

ETA: The photo's not the best in the universe and the spot isn't brilliant puffy pink anymore, but this is what it looks like six days after the shot.